


only immaculate flesh appeases

by fuckitfireeverything



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark Allison, F/M, and a little bit of sex, bloody Allison, but mostly just Allison being a badass, monstergirl Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckitfireeverything/pseuds/fuckitfireeverything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's not in the woods when she sees the yellow eyes, when she realizes its too late. She's at school, her first day, and attached to the yellow eyes in front of her there is a boy with a crooked smile instead of dripping fangs and he is helping her and touching her and Allison is not in the practice of denying herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only immaculate flesh appeases

**Author's Note:**

> this pieces is heavily inspired by Angela Carter's "The Company of Wolves," and draws several lines and its title from there. there are also elements of many of the older (pre-Perrault, pre-Grimm) little red riding hood stories, which I kind of adore and I think work so so well with Allison's character

_The forest closed upon her like a pair of jaws._   
(Angela Carter, "The Company of Wolves")

 

Allison is seven when her father tells her to beware the wolves. Her jaw is set, her gaze as steely-silver as her last name, passed down through her paternal side just the same with the resolution and defiance and stubborn wholehearted conviction, and it's the first night in the now house in Washington; she wants to go out and see the woods behind them and pad, barefooted, over the dead leaves until she can't find herself anymore. She's a little girl, people keep reminding her, just a little girl who should be playing dress up and helping her mother cook, not scraping up her knees and tearing her clothes hurtling through the forest, leaves tangling in the short, short hair she cut herself. Her mother washes out the cuts on her feet and bandages them up and tells her to listen to her father. Her father tells her to beware the wolves. 

But cut feet and sore bones, she sits up at night when her parents have gone to bed, sits on the roof just outside her window, leans against the cool brick and looks up at the full moon and she hears the howls, vast and low, the kind of sound that fills the air and raises the short, short hair on the back of her neck. And something in it sounds so… lonely.

They move. They move and they move and they are always moving, Washington to Wyoming to New Mexico to Oregon, never anywhere for long enough to breathe, but people in school keep saying sit still, people in the grocery store telling her little girls don't run, behave yourself, her mother combs out her hair and hides the scissors when she tries to cut it again, and her father again and again says beware the wolves because you never know what you'll find in the forest past dark, never know when you'll turn just past a tree and see the glowing yellow eyes staring you down and once you see them it's too late. 

At eleven she is bitten by a dog. Janey from school has a rescue, a three legged pit bull with a bb stuck in it's head and a nasty scar across its muzzle, and it's not good with people yet. She tries to pet it and it barks, and when she tries again it takes a chunk our of her leg. She comes home past sundown and her mother sees the blood creeping out from under her dress and she cries, horrible, wracking sobs in her father's arm as her father, sternly, calmly asks her what happened. She tells him and her mother's sobs quiet, her father's fists unclench. The bright lights of the hospital sting her eyes and she needs six stitches to fix the damage but she walks away with a lollipop and a mean scar halfway up her right thigh. 

Her father doesn't let her run around the woods anymore. Doesn't let her out past dark until they move to the city. She listens; she appeases. Her mother buys her dresses, tells her how nice her long hair looks. She wears them with all the grace she can muster; she appeases. She learns to bear it. She learns to like it. She stills.

They hold her back a year, so she crosses her legs at the ankle, puts on a fresh layer of lipstick and stills. Practices her smiles and matches her outfits in the mirror. She appeases. 

And in the quiet of the night she ties up her hair, goes down to the garage, and takes out her bow, her arrows, watching the way the steely-silver glints in the moonlight that creeps in through the windowpanes, and she practices. She moves. With just her and the weapon beneath her fingers, there is nothing to appease.

And sometimes, if she cracks the window open while she fires arrow after arrow into the same target, she can hear the wolf howl. 

They move. Beacon Hills isn't the city, there are woods and there are trees and the air feels thick like your breath in a horror movie, but clean and crisp and her first day there she goes for a run. Hair up, she longs for bare feet, and as she heads out the door her father tells her to be careful, to be back before it gets dark, to beware the wolves.

She rolls her eyes because after all this time and all this caution she's fairly certain there's no such thing as wolves. An old wives's tale, a remnant of another time, like legends of children snatched off the street or women ripped form their beds, found between the jaws of a bloodthirsty creature. A savage beast that leaves people in bloody bits ad midwinter. Besides, she's got a knife at her side, it's blade as sharp and steely-silver as her last name. 

But she's not in the woods when she sees the yellow eyes, when she realizes its too late. She's at school, her first day, and attached to the yellow eyes in front of her there is a boy with a crooked smile instead of dripping fangs and he is helping her and touching her and if her father were there, he would forbid her, if her mother were there she would tell her to be a lady, but they are not there and Allison is not in the practice of denying herself. 

She's not sure what he says, because when he opens his mouth she hears the wolf howl, a long-drawn, wavering howl, fearful and mournful and the most beautiful sound she thinks she's ever heard.

She goes with him to a party and as she leaves her father warns her, beware the wolves, and she wants to say, daddy I've already found a wolf, and what big teeth he has, all the better to swallow me up whole. And she laughs, because she is done with appeasing, she is done with being still, and she is nobody's meat. 

He eats her, oh, he gobbles her up whole, heart and mind and body because that's what wolves do; it is in his nature. He eats her out and she pants out his name in short, breathy gasps, the world going fuzzy at the edges, her toes curling as he licks into her, pulls at her with sharp teeth, tastes her, mmms against her flesh like he's never swallowed anything quite so good; he devours her and leaves her shaking and scraping bloody tracks into his shoulder blades that she prays won't heal, and when she returns the favor he moans and she hears a howl.

Her father hunts him, laces bullets and knife blades with wolfsbane and would kill him if he had the chance, would slit the belly of the beast and pull her out, fill him with stones so he couldn't run, but she takes his hand and she is moving, moving, moving. Her mother catches him, poisons him, as if killing the wolf would bring their little girl back, but she has not been captured. No, she strips her clothes of her own free will and throws them into the fire, her skin gleaming like moonlight, and she is no victim. She is no damsel who the huntsman needs to save. She has no use for appeasing.

She is a wolf. 

She lays at night in the sheets her mother bled out on, feels the blood between her own legs, sweet and red and warm and dripping out of her, and he looks at her like he's never seen something so beautiful in all his life, like the terror of the wolf's howl was nothing more than loneliness, waiting for a girl to disobey her father and see that even if the wolves are the real monster, sometimes being eaten up isn't all that bad. 

He leaves a pawprint trail of blood from her bed to the window when he sneaks out, and he howls, as if the beast would love to be less beastly if he only knew how. But she takes his face between sharp-edged nails and kisses him, deep, bites enough to draw blood, mingling with hers on their lips, and when he pulls away, she howls.


End file.
